Of Madness and Madmen
by thelittlebluepencil
Summary: Sherlock thrives off adrenaline and danger. For that, Moriarty is better than everything else. Moriarty x Sherlock


**Of Madness and Madmen**

* * *

Sherlock turns away, unable to face the consequences of his action, incapable of accepting responsibility for his choice. Just for a moment, he tells himself, just for the time to catch my breath, another lie, but it's not working; he cannot fool himself.

His conscience speaks with the voice of Mycroft in his mind, and it's ridiculous and maddening, insane, illogical, but as hard as he tries to push it away, to squash it into silence it's all useless. The voice seeps in through the cracks in his mind, planting doubt, mocking, accusing.

"_Consorting with the enemy?"_ it whispers, then morphs into John's voice: reprimanding, severe, betrayed, _"are you insane? He tried to kill us!"_

He's gone off the far end, he knows then; the cases, the chases, they weren't enough: they weren't nearly as big a rush as this has been.

He's sore all over, aching in places that hadn't ached in far too long, and he's going to be bruised tomorrow, he's going to have marks all week, he's going to remember it every second, at every breath he takes.

The world is dark, the room is dim, and the only source of light is the red lit end of a cigarette. Jim is smoking in his bed casually, intentionally, making a show of it because he doesn't care about the consequences. Sherlock curses the day he quit smoking.

Sherlock frowns, not for the smell, the ashes or the danger; he frowns at himself, at the Sherlock Holmes he sees reflected in those dark, soulless eyes.

"Relax, it won't be the cigarettes that kill me and you know it," Jim says, delighted, as if the thought honestly pleases him; that much Sherlock can tell. Why, is a mystery.

Jim blows the smoke away and flexes a knee; the sheet covering him remains in place as long as it can then slips away. He looks at Sherlock and smiles a smile that will never reach his eyes.

"You should go now," Sherlock says, flatly, and Jim stubs the rest of his cigarette on Sherlock's bedside table.

"Perhaps I should stay. How else are you supposed to get the redemption you seek?"

"I don't seek redemption, Moriarty."

"Keep fooling yourself," Jim replies, caressing his cheek with a hand.

It's wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Seven different kinds of wrong: insane, unsafe, reckless, impulsive, suicidal, masochistic and plain dangerous, but he cannot stop. He falls and falls, deep into the rabbit hole, until his world is upside down and Jim is straddling him again.

"Will you scream for me?" Jim asks, his lips millimetres from his throat, a sheath to that venomous tongue and overeager teeth.

"Forget it," he replies every time.

"Liar." It almost amuses Moriarty, these little theatricals, this familiar piece they've rehearsed so well and so often lately.

"Make me, then. Prove me a liar," he wants to be angry at Jim, at himself, at his weakness, but he isn't, and he cannot twist anger that isn't there.

"You don't realise it, do you? That you're a challenge, a constantly changing landscape, a line of trenches to be conquered day after day, as each fight makes me lose or gain a few meters."

"You're mad," Sherlock says out loud, and he thinks he's the only one who heard it too. He's not a reliable witness because he's too involved, but it doesn't matter.

"I know."

But it's a lie. Something reassuring. Jim isn't insane or a psychopath, he's honest to his true self. Jim, Sherlock realises, is free.

Envy is not even an option, greed is what irresistibly draws Sherlock towards him, so tempting and burning hot that Sherlock is willing to get his wings singed at the edges. "Make me forget everything else," Sherlock says, biting his lip. He has never known what comes after that.

"On the contrary, I want you to be aware of everything." His wrists are held by strong hands, Jim's weight is resting on his legs, and his lips are close to Sherlock's, to better whisper malice and make his head spin with the need of a kiss.

The sound of steps on stairs. Which stairs, Sherlock doesn't know. He doesn't even care.

"Seems John is back," Jim whispers in his ear. Their games usually end sooner than this, the risk too high.

Sherlock looks at Jim and there is not a single ounce of shame in him, in either of them. No regret, not even hate anymore.

"_Hate is such a precious commodity, I wouldn't waste it on you,"_ Jim said at the door before he let him in.

Sherlock craves the risk today, so Jim stays.


End file.
